


From the ashes

by FreeShavocadoo



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Introspection, M/M, canon typical subjects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-26 07:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21370051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreeShavocadoo/pseuds/FreeShavocadoo
Summary: Years of unbridled rage as he’d ranted to a blank-faced Katniss in the meadow, their safe-haven, the source of hope for both of them and their families, fizzled out like warmth under a blanket of snow. All that anger, justifiable but dangerous, had done nothing to help him. It certainly hadn’t stopped his name being in the reaping ball 36 times when he was reaped at 17.The odds had never been in his favour.(AU in which Gale is the winner of the 73rd Hunger Games)
Relationships: Gale Hawthorne/Finnick Odair
Comments: 13
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

The warmth of the flask of tea his mother had given him before he'd left has long since gone cold, leeched into the frosty air and leaving a slither of warmth left between his hands. In the distance, fog creeps up over the greenery of the meadow, making an already painfully cold morning now ominous. It’s also very reminiscent, very reminiscent indeed.

It’s as though he can feel the fog rising up in the air again as he’s sleeping under a mass of woven ground-plants in the arena, instantly alert and discarding his makeshift sleeping bag of moss from above him, no longer feeling warmth from it but instead a sense of imprisonment. The fog is rising a considerable distance from where he’s lay, caked in dirt, half deliberate and half circumstantial, unaware that barely 500 metres from him, another tribute opens their eyes to the same fog.

It was too late for them, though.

He’d only heard the screams of agony as he rolled out from under the shrubbery, all of his meagre belongings already stowed away in his various pockets, ducking as he ran in no particular direction. There was no comparison to even the most wounded animals Gale had encountered, even as he sprinted, exerting all of his energy to finding another place to lay low, he swore he could still hear the screaming for the rest of the night. The cannon didn’t go off until the artificial sun was already in the sky for a couple of hours, by which point Gale couldn’t and didn’t want to imagine the state of the tribute who caught the fog too late.

He found out in his victory recap that the flesh had melted from their bones. Not that they’d wanted to focus on that for too long, by that point, anyway. After all, the gruesome end to a now nameless tribute paled in comparison to what Gale had then had to do to survive and win his games.

Now, all he can do is give the fog a weary glance, wondering if he should’ve rolled out from under his moss blanket or just let the skin melt from his bones.

_No_, he thinks, _because then Rory would’ve had to watch. And Vick, and Posy and Mom._

Years of unbridled rage as he’d ranted to a blank-faced Katniss in the meadow, their safe-haven, the source of hope for both of them and their families, fizzled out like warmth under a blanket of snow. All that anger, justifiable but dangerous, had done nothing to help him. It certainly hadn’t stopped his name being in the reaping ball 36 times when he was reaped at 17.

The odds had never been in his favour.

Katniss hadn’t cried when she’d seen him in the Justice Building, but her eyes are clouded and he knows it’s about as much emotion as she can handle to hold back, for his sake and her own. They’d agreed a long time ago to provide for each other’s families, should the worst happen, and she tells him resolutely that none of that has changed, and that his family will still be well-fed by the time he returns.

She says it likes it’s a fact and he appreciates it, that it’s so candid and it’s typical Katniss, and it’s strengthening his resolve more than his last meeting with his family had.

Twelve was never going to be considered a district worth looking out for. Outliers were rarely given any credence, but twelve had the distinctive disadvantage of undoubtedly the highest rate of poverty and starvation combined with a lack of industry-specific knowledge at reaping ages. At least in equally poor districts, as he’d learned on his victor’s tour, such as eleven, they had the weight of manual labour on their side. The same in seven, where the majority of the population was put to work chopping lumber.

He remembers the stifling combination of glee and disgust at the table of food piled high on his first trip to the Capitol, just after being reaped. Even in his wildest imagination, when he was at his hungriest, he couldn’t have come up with half of the dishes on the table. He’d thought, briefly, of how much labour and time he’d have to put in just to get a mere imitation of one dish, before scowling and begrudgingly eating only the blandest foods at the table.

“Oh, dear,” Effie’s spider-eyelashed gaze seems to view him with pity, which only makes his blood boil more, “you might as well try something you’ve not tried before!”

Gale’s fork clatters on the table, his eyes unflinching as Effie winces. “Like killing children?”

Her gasp cuts the already awkward atmosphere into one of bizarre chaos, with Effie’s wig going askew when her hands fly up to her face in shock too quickly. Haymitch, who’s barely been present for any of the conversation in lieu of his glass of red wine, guffaws so enthusiastically that he splutters red wine all over an already filthy button-up shirt, and the female tribute, who’s name escapes Gale even if he cared to remember it, stares meekly at the table behind a sheet of district twelve merchant-blond hair.

By the time it came around to being sent to the stylists, Gale’s blood has boiled for so long he wonders how his skin hasn’t melted off. They half-wax him, until his glares become so severe that even they can’t chatter over him as if he doesn’t exist. They rinse him down repeatedly, tutting at what they refer to as the ‘filth’ under his fingernails, and the roughness of his hands from years of snare-trapping.

Whatever concept they had devised for the opening ceremony was going to be lost on him, regardless, but when they shove him in front of a mirror as they’re adding final touches, he wonders if he’d get any sponsors even if he pulled stars from the night sky.

Practically naked to anyone with an imagination and soot-black head-to-toe, Gale barely even manages to feel exploited as easily as he feels he’s fighting a losing battle. They coo over the blue-grey of his eyes, how fearsome they say he’ll look, when all he sees is someone who looks like they’ve dragged themselves out of a mining accident if it were filmed for a Capitol soap opera.

He’s sure he probably does give off an intimidating vibe, after all, everyone who meets him has told him as much. But the coils of silver paint winding around his limbs that his stylists insist make him look like a caged bird ready to fly, make him feel even more ridiculous. When he’s told by Haymitch to just keep looking as angry as he already does, it’s hardly a difficult task.

He’d given nothing away in his interview, and he was positive even with a training score of 9 that they’d disregard him. The career tributes had already formed their alliances in the training room in plain sight, eyes barely skimming over Gale, who always made an effort to be kneeling down at one of the nature stations, refining skills he’d already learned. It was good that they rarely got close to him, standing at his full height. It was good that the training gear hides stretches of lithe hunter’s muscle, muscle with the potential to be more intimidating if it were on a steadily substantial diet, even if it’s better than the diet most of the population of district twelve was on.

It was good that, on the first night after the bloodbath under the artificial moon, district four’s male tribute lands his foot right in Gale’s elevated trap, hanging him upside down and bewildered.

He didn’t even manage to make a noise before Gale had slit his throat with a serrated blade, leaving his body hanging in the tree as he disappeared back into the trees.

By the time the hovercraft drops for him with the sound of trumpets blaring, he’s killed five people in the arena.

District four’s male, hanging upside down in a tree with his throat slit, the ghost of surprise still etched on his face.

District two’s male, sprawled on his side with water still dripping from his cupped hands, laced with nightlock.

District two’s female, an arrow through her head as she lay sleeping instead of on watch, a singular trickle of blood streaming down her temple.

District twelve’s female, disfigured by fog that melted her flesh from her bones for hours. She’d been smart enough to follow Gale’s direction at a distance in the first two days. She was unfortunate to be lying closer to the blanket of fog that descended upon them both, however. Even if Gale didn’t directly kill her, he still feels a sense of ownership over it.

District ten’s male, the bloodiest, a scuffle in the dead of night without any weapons on either side. Gale still remembers the warmth of the blood on his hands after bashing his head in with a nearby rock until the body trapped beneath him stopped struggling.

Nobody really speaks to him when he gets home. His mother tries, not entirely avoiding the hard topics but knowing him well enough to never toe over that line, especially with his siblings in the room. He doesn’t even have the peace of keeping his thoughts to himself, barely managing to keep from waking in the morning and thrashing around mercilessly because he knows that a few doors down, Rory and Vick are sleeping soundly. Beside them, Posy and Hazelle sleep soundly too.

It’s only him that can’t even call sleep his own, anymore.

On one particularly stifling evening, weeks after his return from the Victory Tour, when he can’t bare to stare at the concerned faces of his family anymore, he barges into Haymitch’s house. Ever since Hazelle has been cleaning, it no longer reeks of despair and misery, at least, even if the despair and misery is incarnate in Haymitch regardless.

For once, Haymitch sits rather alert on his couch, tired eyes flitting in Gale’s direction with alarming speed.

“So,” Haymitch drawls, pouring himself a small glass of a spirit that makes Gale’s eyes water even at this distance, “come to the realisation that nobody ever _really _wins?”

Gale sits, as eerily still as he usually does when watching his snares from a distance. Something in Haymitch’s tone gives him reason to have the sense of impending doom that’s been hanging over his head since returning from a chorus of Capitolite praise and admiration.

“The Capitol seems to have a real taste for twelve now.” Haymitch doesn’t drink from his glass, opting instead to stare into it.

Animals avoid eye contact when they sense danger or despair.

“How strong of a taste?” Gale replies stoically, managing to put some meaning behind the words even if the entirety of the meaning still evades him.

Haymitch’s eyes meet his. Seam eyes, eyes that have known starvation and suffering even in alleged victory.

“Word is, the Capitol is going to invite you back for celebrations when you turn eighteen,” Haymitch sips from his drink now, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment, “at President Snow’s invitation.”

Gale allows the words to sink in. The realisation that even now, after the blood he’s spilled and the entertainment he’s given, he’s still not free from the Capitol’s grasp. As long as he and his family are still breathing, he’s merely a source of entertainment for them.

Haymitch’s eyes soften momentarily, before he frowns so deeply he’s aged several years.

“I defied the Capitol once.” His tone is far away, distant, as if he’s suddenly at that exact moment again instead of this one. “My mother, my brother, my girl. Gone. Two weeks after my games.”

He breathes in, still caught in his grief after all of these years, before continuing.

“That wasn’t even intentional defiance.”

Gale stares into the embers in Haymitch’s fireplace, long burnt out, still the slightest hint of warmth emanating from them. He closes his eyes, images of four bodies burned to a crisp in his house, the least offensive of the accidents the Capitol could concoct. It’s more painful than any of the injuries he’d sustained in the arena.

“Look,” Haymitch turns to fully face him, not with a pitying stare but one of understanding and solidarity, “you’re just the new thing in the Capitol at the moment. Come next year, they’ll have a new victor. That ain’t really any source of comfort for any normal people, but you’re not a normal person now.”

Gale wonders what makes him feel more disgusted. The fact that he participated in the games and killed other, no matter how brainwashed, children for their entertainment. Or the possibility that had crossed his mind in the arena, of dying to spite them, only to think living would defy them more.

How wrong he was.

* * *

The glaringly bright lights, lavish furniture and garish decorations are something he never quite grows accustomed to. No matter how many women with their stretched-skin faces and clawed nails fawn over him, even if he’s trying to melt away in the dark corner of an empty corridor with a drink in his hand, he still has to remind himself of his family.

He doesn’t have to smile, at least. Apparently, his appeal comes from how dangerous he is.

He quickly downs another drink, a fizzy bubblegum pink concoction that goes straight to his head fast enough to dull the sharp edges daring to spike around him. The capitol men and women dance obnoxiously on the dancefloor, reeking of ridiculous perfumes and sporting neon colours that are apparently ‘in’ this season.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The voice is so close to his ear, so low that it’s practically purring, and the combination of breath fanning across Gale’s ear and the sudden closeness of someone he didn’t manage to hear has his hackles raised instantly.

He turns to face a pair of beautiful sea-green eyes that he’s only glimpsed on countless Capitol propaganda videos on TV that were required viewing. Finnick Odair, handsome, deadly and dimpled. Standing before him with vague amusement that doesn’t quite reach his dazzling eyes.

“What’s not to enjoy?” Gale’s tone is his usual brand of dry cynicism, one of the few things he’s allowed to cling on to. Since it matches the persona they’ve created for him.

There was a time when, years ago, Gale would glare at the screen as Finnick Odair was interviewed for anything or paraded around on screen in his ridiculously provocative outfits, staring into the camera as if he were seducing it. He’d seen him as a disgusting example of what happens when someone from one of the districts begins to see themselves as a Capitolite. Surrounded by throngs of eager men and women, drooling over his every word.

Now he feels disgusted with himself for believing anything the Capitol pushes on the districts.

“You’ll be a mentor soon,” Finnick absent-mindedly picks up a tiny square of a dessert resting beside Gale’s second drink, placing his own drink down and eating as if he’s trained his entire life to do so in front of a camera, “at least Haymitch might be happy.”

“The only emotion Haymitch knows is drunk.” Gale replies flatly, looking away with his jaw clenched.

“You sound jealous.” Finnick’s eyes twinkle a little, as if teasing Gale helps him feel better about the night they can both pretend they don’t have ahead of them.

“Jealous of Haymitch? Now I’ve heard it all.” Gale snorts, finishing another drink, slightly pleased at the fuzzier feeling in his head. Then he throws up all over the floor, barely having time to register. Avoxes descend on the mess immediately, and Gale is vaguely aware of Finnick’s hand on his back guiding him down the corridor towards a surly Haymitch, before he’s bundled into an elevator so fast he only briefly sees the sad smile on Finnick Odair’s face.

“Looks like we’ll have to cancel your……appointment.” Haymitch half carries Gale into his room, depositing him on the bed with startling ease. “You might as well get some sleep.”

His vision is swimming, but the brief flicker of Finnick’s hand near his drink as he reached for a dessert sticks to his mind. He’d thought that his second drink was an orange one, barely paying any mind when Finnick picked up an orange drink from the table.

Until he now realises Finnick had placed one of the pastel purple drinks down instead.

_“Of course you can eat as much as you want!” One of the stylists had waved her hand at him, as though he were a clueless child, “just drink one of these and you’ll be as good as new!”_

He’s not sure if he wants to feel like he owes Finnick Odair anything, even if he does currently feel like shit.

* * *

“You don’t talk much anymore.” Katniss’ voice hangs in the silence of the meadow, cutting through the fog and the coldness in Gale’s bones.

“That’s rich coming from you,” Gale turns to stare at her, “you’ve barely spoken a word since you came back from your Victory Tour.”

She considers this, a hard stare greeting Gale, “well I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

Gale finds it hard not to be resentful, even to the person he’s loved more than anyone else in this world. He knows now that his love for Katniss is merely a love etched in their grief, longing and familiarity. It’s not romantic, it never was. They’d known little of romance in their lives, but now Katniss had survived her games, too. Gale couldn’t decide if he was breathing easier because of it.

She had Peeta to lean on, at least. Strong, dependable, always knows what to say Peeta. He was her lifeline. For all of her surliness, her uncanny ability to incite passion and uproar, Peeta softened her edges so easily that it seemed only Katniss was unaware of how deeply her affections went. Whatever it had started as, their relationship was now more dependent than ever, even if it had originally been a simple survival strategy for Katniss.

Of course, if all of the rebellion she’s stirred amounts to nothing in the end, she and Peeta will have every milestone of their lives documented across Panem. They’ll be expected to follow up their marriage with at least one child, who is extremely likely to be reaped for entertainment value.

But, unlike Gale, when Katniss awakes from her nightmares, she’ll find Peeta. When the interviewers ask her questions about people she’s killed in the arena, Peeta will speak for her. When her world is crumbling around her, Peeta is her crutch.

It’s hard not to be resentful.

Like countless other tributes, Gale isn’t afforded even a fraction of the happiness that Katniss may still find with Peeta. He’ll continue being shipped to and from the Capitol until they tire of him, even if the damage is already done. He’ll be denied the comfort of ever having a life-partner. He’ll even be denied the comfort of just ending it all, for the simple fact that if his family survived his suicide, they’d be shipped off back to their shack in the Seam with only Katniss to rely on for food, if their grief would ever allow them to live normally again.

He thinks of Haymitch, the man he’d seen from a young age, stumbling into town and towards the Hob, tossing down handfuls of coins for bottles of alcohol. Haymitch who nobody could look in the eye, who seemed like a bad omen. Even as district twelve’s only winner, and winner of a quarter quell, his games were rarely spoken of, and Gale doesn’t recall even seeing the later half of them. To the district, Haymitch was a sad old drunk who nobody could ever really understand, or even forgive for what they’d seen him do in the games.

And now Gale was another ghost in the victor’s village, too.

Plastered over TV’s, whisked in and out of the district. Quiet and mistrustful. He wasn’t Katniss and her ‘girl on fire’ persona, with several wedding dresses and a perfect husband on her arm, barely getting glances from people in district twelve.

He was a reminder of what happens to those who actually have the audacity to win.

And President Snow was going to die for that.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s taking all of his effort to avoid wincing at the hot-pink monstrosity interviewing him, the garish white face makeup combined with neon pink only resulting in a ghastly look that surely can’t even be attractive by Capitol standards. Her nails remind Gale of the wild dogs that he and Katniss sometimes were unfortunate enough to encounter, more like talons than nails, made for ripping flesh out.

Not that hers are meant to be practical enough to actually have a purpose, though.

“So,” she smiles widely, what Gale can only assume she thinks is a reassuring smile, “how do you feel having another_ two _victors from twelve? One being your _cousin_, none the less!”

She can barely contain her excitement, it seems.

“I guess the victor’s village will be a bit more crowded, now.” Gale replies sardonically, ignoring the exasperated look Effie gives in the background.

The interviewer giggles obnoxiously, swatting at Gale as though they’ve just had a joke between friends. By rights, he should be used to this type of behaviour by now, but he isn’t. It still makes his skin crawl, he’s just better at hiding it now.

“Are you excited about the Quarter Quell?” She is leaning forward in her seat now, perched so far off the edge Gale hopes she might fall flat on her face.

He pauses immediately to censor his answer, “I’m certainly intrigued as to what the twist will be, this year.”

“Well I’m sure we all can’t wait to see you in the Capitol soon, prior to the announcement!” She smiles at the camera before it shuts off, equipment being packed away before she even has time to disconnect her microphone.

“You did a great job, darling,” she shoots him a smirk, the type that makes him want to claw his skin off his own body, “I hope I’ll see you when you visit!”

Gale can only grunt in response, standing and walking immediately towards his home in the victor’s village, watching at the window as the Capitol media crew pack away their equipment. Eager enough to get what they consider gossip, eager enough to exploit the victors, but couldn’t be more eager to leave district twelve as fast as they can.

They still all hold handkerchiefs to their faces when they enter the district, even though they are dropped off at the edge of the district, right outside of the victor’s village. As though the air everyone in twelve is breathing is toxic, but it only matters once it enters their lungs.

_I hope I’ll see you when you visit!_

It’s not the first time someone interviewing him, sizing him for clothes, styling him, speaking to him in the remake centre has made a comment about wanting to keep his company. Sometimes it’s obvious that they’re aware of just how little control the victors have over their lives, and other times it seems more of a poor attempt at flirtation. As if they genuinely believe that he wants to be in their presence.

It makes him simultaneously amused and disgusted to the point of hysteria.

It’s barely been a year since he became a victor, was whisked away on an endless victory tour, trapped in the Capitol for months and months. Coming home held no comfort after that, as it was made clear that it was a temporary stop at best. His family didn’t know what to do with him, really, and he didn’t know what to say to them, either. It’s hard to imagine how the other victors cope. He’s only met a handful of them, but the fact that they were in the Capitol in the odd between-games months meant that clearly, nothing good was happening for them, as well.

Katniss makes little attempt to truly speak to him anymore, and he can’t say his attempts to speak to her are much more effective or well received. It seems the games have not only taken their friendship from them, but the one thread that held them together well enough to weave it back together. Haymitch seems to find Gale’s presence just as depressing as everything else he deals with on a regular basis, if not more so, offering occasional bits of snarky advice in between seeing Gale on trains to and from the Capitol and back in the victor’s village.

He doesn’t bother to pack anything from home for this visit, though.

The few remnants of clothes he has from his life prior to becoming a victor, he’d rather keep stowed away in his room. He’ll only be dragged out of them and put into gaudy Capitol outfits anyway. His woven bracelet, his hunting boots, even his winter coat, all locked away in some pitiful attempt to keep them away from the Capitol in a way that Gale cannot afford to be kept away himself.

As far as journeys go, it’s painless. The train is as fast as ever, and most of his entourage keep to their own train carriages. Haymitch, predictably, stays in his room and gets blind-drunk as his camera responsibilities won’t befall him until a few days into their stay in the Capitol. He’ll be expected to talk about how great it is to have taken twelve from having only him as a sole victor, to suddenly having three other victors. He’s the first mentor to bring home two tributes in one year, after all, and he’s likely to have to speak about how fortunate everyone is right up until the Quarter Quell announcement.

Gale has mixed feelings on the entire debacle. Whilst having more than one other person, especially considering the other person was scruffy Haymitch, living in the victor’s village was a nice change, it just meant more scrutiny for all of them. Haymitch, as the mentor, would be subject to endless amounts of praise from the Capitol and questions about his mentoring techniques. Katniss and Peeta would forever be a source of idolisation to the Capitol, forever forced to play out their romance on camera. They’d also be the source of ire from other victors and people in the districts for being the two fortunate enough to both win, unlike countless tributes before them from the same district who’d had to kill each other and face their district’s fury when they came back afterwards, alone.

Gale, as per usual, would be asked the standard questions about how he assisted Haymitch, if in fact Gale contributed more to the mentoring effort. Questions he has to answer carefully because Katniss won’t, and Peeta can have a nice try at but is oblivious as to the danger he’s in, thanks to Haymitch’s insistence to Katniss that he can manage without the details. As if their lives aren’t all depending on the ‘right’ answers.

Two years ago, Gale would’ve jumped at the opportunity to incite riots in the districts. If he hadn’t been subject to his own games and everything that’d followed, he’d probably tell Katniss that she should speak up, for the sake of all of the districts that are too scared to fight back just yet. Instead, he climbs into a bed that is still too comfortable and lets the blankets drown him until he wakes from a restless sleep, ready for a day of being paraded around the Capitol once more.

* * *

As per usual, he stands in the corner, as if attempting to slip into the shadows unnoticed. Perhaps he could, if he were wearing the costume he’d had to for his tribute parade. The thought nearly makes him laugh, if not for the fact he’s trying to avoid anyone else’s attention.

“You’re doing a shit job of hiding, pretty boy.”

Johanna Mason leans over his shoulder, seeming to find glee in the sigh she receives in return, Gale’s eyes flickering to look at her with a mix of mild amusement and tiredness.

“Well if you’re near me, I’m obviously never going to go unnoticed.” He replies dryly, deciding to carefully pick up a drink from a nearby table, instinctually sniffing it first. Though that technique might help him hunting, he’s not sure the artificial scents of Capitol drinks are going to impress anything but nausea and confusion, rather than realisation, on him.

“Seems like twelve is the district to beat, all of a sudden.” Johanna stands before him, relatively plain by the Capitol’s standards. Tall heels, tied-back hair, a slinky long black dress. Her makeup is heavy enough to make her already angry looking face downright terrifying.

“Apparently.” Gale decides to sip at the drink, thinking that by this point, being sick or dying suddenly is the least of his concerns. “I’m surprised you’re here.”

Johanna smiles, all teeth and glaring eyes. “Well, I still have to show up. Even if my presence is mostly considered insulting.”

He thinks of Johanna, the girl barely a few years older than him, winner of the 71st games. The girl who was paraded around on television an equal amount to Finnick for at least a year after her games, before only appearing sporadically alongside other victors at what Gale now recognises as mandatory events. He thinks of how, even in a room full of Capitol citizens, she glares and gives biting remarks.

If she’d been subject to the same treatment that the others had, whatever leverage the Capitol had once had on her, they’d clearly lost. Gale wonders briefly if it was her parents, maybe a brother or a sister. Maybe even a partner. Whatever it is, she’d partially served her sentence too inadequately for Snow’s tastes, but in the Capitol’s attempts to break her down, they also lost the only thing they could properly hang over her head.

“You have the conversational skills of an avox.” She glares at him, as though his inability, or lack of care, towards making a conversation is the biggest priority she has at the present moment.

Flicking her ponytail over her shoulder, she flounces off into the distance, nearly knocking a rather round, elderly Capitol citizen over the buffet table in the process.

“Always a charmer, isn’t she?”

He recognises Finnick’s voice, this time.

“Aren’t we all?” Gale stares at Finnick, who stands barely half a head shorter than him, broader in the shoulders than Gale is. His green eyes look cloudier than ever.

He smiles, sparklingly white teeth and dimples. “I hope you’re feeling better since the last time we spoke.”

Gale can’t help but glare over the drink he’s nursing, even if he knows it’s ridiculous. Whatever motives Finnick Odair had when he’d decided to give Gale that drink, it’d saved him for two nights at least. It doesn’t stop Gale from glaring at the memory of Haymitch of all people, laughing at him once he’d deposited Gale back in his bedroom. Or Effie, scolding him for trying to ‘outdo Haymitch’. Or even the silent but judgemental stares of the Avoxes, having to rush to clean up the mess he’d unintentionally left, their eyes giving Gale the impression that they thought he’d done it to spite them.

Gale decides to give his best, trademark sarcastic smile back. The one that used to guarantee people would avoid him, but is now allegedly irresistible. “Much better, thank you.”

“Oh, don’t thank me, sweetheart,” Finnick daintily eats frosting from the top of a nearby cake, clearly not giving any mind to his lack of manners, “I’m sure your district twelve stomach _should _be made of iron, but I guess it’s got an aversion to the finer things in life.”

Gale pretends to ignore the wink Finnick gives him. “I guess I should be more careful next time.”

“You should always be more careful.” Finnick smiles, but it never reaches his eyes that are now unnaturally focused on Gale’s, as though urging him to read between the lines.

He loops his arm around Gale’s own, as if they’re suddenly…. Gale isn’t sure that any word would actually be adequate for him in all of his surly, all-black clothed glory, and Finnick in his deep emerald, silk shirt and exposed bronzed chest, linked arm-in-arm.

They walk around the perimeter of the room, getting various greetings from guests who all seem to know one or both of them, though the attention naturally falls on Finnick. Finnick never seems to miss a beat, shaking hands, smiling, laughing and joking. Gale is good at his brand, purely because his brand is sarcastic and surly, something the Capitol, considering twelve’s lack of victors, consider to be quite charming.

“So,” Finnick’s voice is low as they continue to walk, until they’re behind flowing silk curtains and outside on a balcony overlooking the Capitol, lights flickering in the distance, “how is everything back home?”

Gale by now, assumes most of Finnick’s statements and questions are loaded. “Quiet, I guess. Not that anything stays that way for too long.”

Finnick chuckles, though it lacks its usual vigour and obnoxiousness, “The Quell will probably be the break to that quiet, I imagine. But at least twelve has it’s pick of mentors, this year.”

His eyes flick to Gale’s, heavy. He looks older, somehow, even under the gentle makeup Gale knows he’s subjected to, he can still see the dark lines of Finnick’s under eyes, the slope in his shoulders for a brief moment. It seems Gale isn’t the only one with a bad feeling as of late. Something tells him that Finnick has a lot more reason and knowledge to be so than he does, however.

“I suppose that depends on how long the wedding celebrations last.” Gale manages to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

For weeks, people have been tiptoeing around him for fear of explosion due to the constant bombardment of mandatory viewings showing Katniss and Peeta, from the wedding dress options to the Capitol citizens opinions on the venue, even interviews with people from twelve to form an idea of what traditions are customary to the district.

He’s not angry Katniss is getting married for the reasons people assume. He’s aware now that, not only is their friendship already rocky, but whatever feelings he’d assumed he’d had for her were more out of comfort than reality. He’s also aware that she’s still stuck equally between doing what she needs to in order to survive, and whether she knows it or not, clinging onto her lifeline.

He’s angry because he’s here, she’s there, and he’s furious that he’s made to feel this way about one of the few people he loves because the Capitol has made him.

Finnick’s fingers brush away a stray feather from Gale’s neck, with a touch so light and fleeting that Gale only truly notices because of his overstimulated senses and his eyes changing direction.

“Best not to think about it.” Finnick’s voice is so light it nearly carries away in the night-time breeze, his eyes so clouded with emotion that it’s what Gale can only imagine the sea looks like in a storm.

“Is that what you do?” Gale asks the question before he can stop himself.

When Finnick’s fingers brush over his torso to move his shirt, Gale recognises the slight pink under the layers of bronzed, shimmering makeup. The signs of skin grafts. He’d had a few himself after his games, various injuries that they’d smoothed over. The skin always took a while to fully heal, though, and in some places, Gale can still see the off-colour skin that he’d refused to have treated after his initial hospital stay after his games.

He’d rather not imagine why Finnick has new skin grafts, but he can’t help the horrible images that flash to the front of his mind.

Of course, that’s why the remake centre is so popular with victors. Many of the Capitol citizens who aren’t in the inner circles just assume it’s where victors go to get outfits and styling advice when their stylists aren’t on hand. It mainly served as an off-site hospital in most cases. Sobering up victors who had gotten too drunk before an event or appointment with a Capitolite. Those who came back from their events with marks of anger and excess, from people who revelled in the power that came from being able to mark the people that the Capitol deliberately presented as powerful.

They loved being able to put the victors on a pedestal, because it meant they could be the ones to knock them down from it.

His fingers brush over the discoloured skin on Finnick’s torso, and even if Finnick hides his emotions well at the best of times, Gale still hears the gentle hiss of pain that his movement elicits.

“Are you sure you don’t want one of those drinks?” He asks, moving his hand back to his side and staring off into the distance, wishing he was anywhere but here.

Finnick snorts, shaking his head softly. “I think I’m past the luxury of being side-tracked over a simple round of vomiting, don’t you?”

Gale shrugs, non-committal. Prefers not to think about the fact that they’ve probably all tried tricks like that at one point, things to get them out of the miserable existence they’ve been put into, even if it only temporarily saves them.

“Whatever you do,” he pulls Gale into a ridiculous hug, his face pressed tightly under Gale’s jaw enough so that Gale can just about hear him, “don’t try and play the hero. You’re better for everyone if you’re alive and well.”

Gale imagines his family, imagines Katniss and her family. Even Peeta and Haymitch, too. Imagines the entire victor’s village burned to the ground.

“Stay alive.” Gale whispers, laughing at the one line of advice Haymitch always gives.

It’s the last time he sees Finnick Odair before the Quarter Quell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I said I was aiming for two chapters, but clearly this is shaping up into one of those 'who the hell knows' stories.  
Feedback always appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

It was one of those moments that seemed to stop time itself.

Just like the morning of the reaping of the 73rd games, in which he’d spent more time glancing over at Katniss and trying to comfort her as the female name was read out, only to hear his own name following it up. Even now, he can still recall it in slow motion. The way the boys his age, boys he’s grown up with and spoken to throughout school, all step away from him as though he was diseased. Nobody made eye-contact with him, his steps up to the podium were relatively steady, though his eyes stayed far away from the direction of Katniss.

The morning of the 74th games, standing off to the side lines and wondering if this is what parents felt like. The helpless dread as he spots Katniss and Prim, Prim whose name is only in the reaping ball once in comparison to the thirty pieces of paper with Katniss Everdeen written on them. How slowly time had moved when Primrose Everdeen had been drawn, when Katniss had rushed in a panic to volunteer for her, before being dragged up onto the same stage that Gale had stood on a year earlier.

The singular time he’d decided to watch the 74th games, as Katniss holds a handful of nightlock berries in her hands. Whichever way Gale had looked at it, they were all damned no matter what anyone did after that. Either the Capitol was deprived of a victor, or Katniss and Peeta would be allowed to live after a blatant show of defiance against the Capitol, putting themselves and everyone else under a magnifying glass. A simple solution it was, to Katniss, pulling the berries out of her pocket to avoid having to kill Peeta for whatever reason. But the simple solution had the potential to boil over into something she could never have predicted or caused, had she been trying intentionally.

Now, he stares at the screen, into the serpent-eyes of President Snow, watching as he draws an envelope from what Gale can only imagine is a box of horrors for future Quarter Quells. He wonders, briefly, what the people who wrote these games had thought about them. Had they sat around a table, arguing amongst themselves, but eventually considering the hunger games to be the most utilitarian option for the Capitol after the dark days? He doesn’t have much longer to ponder as the yellowing card is read out.

_On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest amongst them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors._

It’s like he doesn’t remember how to breathe. There are too many questions, too many emotions. If his name doesn’t get called, surely, he’d be expected to volunteer to allow Peeta a chance at living? If Gale is called, would anyone volunteer for him? Katniss is guaranteed to be returning, regardless, and he’s not sure exactly what Katniss wants anymore. Whatever scenario it is, mentor or tribute, Gale will be forced to make a decision on who amongst them deserves to live most. Naturally, Katniss will advocate for Peeta. Haymitch would probably prefer Peeta, as the best of them, but Katniss is more valuable for whatever it is Haymitch has been plotting.

Gale isn’t particularly useful to anyone but his family.

He knows, realistically, that Peeta will volunteer for him if his name is read out. So he can assure Katniss’ victory and survival. But if Peeta’s name is read out, whether Katniss will come and speak to him or not, Gale knows she would want him or Haymitch to volunteer in his place.

It’d been clear to him for a long time that being a victor didn’t really mean he’d won, yet even in his most cynical and darkest moments, he’d never considered the possibility of having to step back into the arena.

He thinks of his mother, who’s been managing to hold it together and remain caring enough to Gale to keep him at arms-length for his own sake. Of Rory, who, even at his age, knows enough to avoid certain topics with Gale and has clearly instructed their younger siblings to follow suit. Rory who’d asked to learn how to hunt, which now seems to be more poignant than ever when Gale imagines them being back in their shack in the Seam.

There was no guarantee Katniss would make it out alive, even if all parties involved were trying to make it so. Meaning that whoever was left in terms of mentors wouldn’t guarantee Gale’s family to be fed and made safe.

Whichever way he looked at it, they were all damned.

* * *

He’d barely even managed to take a breath when Haymitch’s name had been read out, before Peeta had stepped forward immediately. Another year of being a co-mentor, it seems. To either do what Katniss had asked of him and Haymitch, and keep Peeta alive, or simply try to keep Katniss alive instead.

Haymitch might think he’s being subtle, but as far as Gale can tell, he’s as sober as Gale has ever seen him. Not stone-cold sober but drinking small amounts in moderation enough to be coherent, even if he acts as drunk as possible in public. Whatever it is that’s important enough for Haymitch to forgo heavy drinking at a time like this, Gale can only speculate. But with the combination of the small uprisings they’ve been hearing about and the victor’s return to the arena, Gale is positive it’s probably rebellion of some description.

Words barely pass between him and Katniss, unless she’s trying to assertively tell him to choose Peeta. He wants to tell her that it’s unlikely he’ll really have much sway in the matter if Haymitch is thinking differently. That, yes, Gale is the one most likely to rake in sponsors when he steps foot into the sponsors pit in the games, because he’s young and handsome and still considered a unique offering for them. But Haymitch is the one with a bigger say in what parachutes are sent down and to who, and if Gale’s instincts are right about Haymitch’s plotting, he’s certain that once again, Peeta Mellark is not the priority.

He wishes that he could lessen her pain, or warn her at the very least. Warn her to stay close to Peeta, to not let him out of her sight.

But being the person who is only guessing at plots, who isn’t the most trusted voice in Katniss’ ear anymore, means he just keeps his mouth shut instead.

It’s late night when he catches Haymitch in a carriage by himself, lights off, as the world flies by the windows. If Haymitch hears him, which is highly unlikely considering Gale’s gentle tread, he doesn’t acknowledge him.

Gale decides to haul Haymitch up by his shirt, ignoring the unceremonious guffaw of surprise he gets in response, simply pushing him towards one of the windows that he pushes open. The wind howls in loudly enough for Gale’s liking as he turns to stare at Haymitch, eyes steely and unwavering.

“You’re going to tell me what’s going on right now.” The wind might carry his words into oblivion, providing the perfect disguise to any potential listening devices on the train, but Haymitch clearly hears him loud and clear by the way his face morphs into one of slight anger and resignation.

“You’re not stupid,” he replies, voice gravelly, as he rubs his temples and looks older than Gale has ever seen him, “you’ve probably figured a lot of it out.”

“That isn’t an answer.” The frustrations from the past few weeks, months, years, seem to finally be spilling out.

“District thirteen is still alive, underground,” Haymitch moves closer to the window, even though the speed of the train means the wind is howling in, “we have a plan to get Katniss out of the arena and get everyone to thirteen, if we can.”

_If we can._

He allows himself one precious moment to let the words sink in, nodding slowly. Thinking of thirteen, the same district shown every year under smoking rubble, surviving underground whilst everyone else suffers.

“At least half of the other victors are going to be in on it.” Haymitch shuts the window, symbolising the end of the conversation, giving Gale one last significant look before leaving the carriage without looking back.

He thinks of Johanna, like Katniss, the only surviving female victor from district seven. He thinks of Annie Cresta, who’d avoided the clutches of the Capitol only to be reaped for the Quell before Mags, a woman Gale has only met twice but has nothing but respect and admiration for, volunteered. Finnick, who’s name was drawn in a relatively full reaping bowl in comparison to most districts, something Gale can’t for one second believe is coincidence. Whilst he might be a Capitol favourite, if not _the_ Capitol favourite, the drama that is brought by having him back in the arena was clearly too much to pass up.

How are they all meant to keep Katniss alive? How is Katniss going to operate when she knows nothing, when all she’s motivated by is the pull to keep Peeta alive over herself? Even in the best possible scenario, people are going to die in the arena by circumstance or be left behind when whatever the rebels have planned actually materialises.

The feeling of impending doom he’s had that has consistently followed him since his own reaping seems to have had some sort of foreshadowing. He’s so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even hear Peeta, of all people, until he’s standing beside him.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks, and Gale is always taken aback by the pure empathy he exudes. He and Peeta have no real reason to have animosity toward one another, but there is always a level of awkwardness there, regardless. Gale assumes it’s because of everyone else’s expectations that they should hate each other.

“Can any of us, ever?” Gale replies, trying to push back thoughts of a rebellion to the back of his head as fuel to close his eyes for sleep later, something good if not, in Gale’s opinion, likely to end in disaster.

“I know that you and Haymitch and Katniss have probably all had conversations.” Peeta’s tone is blunt, the one he uses when he’s usually hurt about being left out of plans and discussions, over overlooked, “but you chose her to win last time.”

“I didn’t-,”

“It doesn’t matter,” Peeta cuts him off, looking tired, “I agreed she had the best chance and was the better option. But this time, you and Haymitch owe me. She has a family that needs her, she has to win.”

Gale resists the urge to tell Peeta how ridiculous it is that he thinks Katniss doesn’t know exactly what he’s up to. That Katniss isn’t trying exactly the same thing, as Peeta has acknowledged, meaning they are both at odds with one another. Even if one of them is focused on by Haymitch and Gale’s efforts, the fact is, half of the tributes not in on the rebel plans means that either or both could die at the hands of another victor before the initial bloodbath is even over.

“You should be more concerned about keeping an eye on her, rather than us.”

It’s an innocent comment, seemingly telling Peeta that Katniss is, as she has always been, a wildcard. If Peeta were paying attention the way Gale hopes he is, it also means that he should be always close to and paying attention to Katniss once they’re in the arena.

Whatever form the rebel plan takes, if they’re by each other’s sides, it’ll be a lot easier on everyone.

Peeta nods stiffly, walking out of the carriage and leaving Gale to his dangerous thoughts.

* * *

In Gale’s opinion, the tribute parade is usually a relatively sad affair. Most districts are paraded around in the same vaguely related costumes, most so underfed and beaten-down that it just looks pathetic. This year, with the victors, it is plain the effect that ‘victory’ has had on them all. Most are ravaged with their various addictions, with yellowing, aged skin. Hunched over, clouded eyes. Some manage to look somewhat presentable, but on the whole, the victors just look like sad remnants of the past.

Remnants of a time when many in the Capitol rooted for them, sponsored them, tuned in for every interview and event they attended. But now, they are mere ghosts in comparison to the tributes that left the arena to the sound of trumpets. He wonders how even the Capitol can enjoy this spectacle.

At least some of the younger victors don’t look as sad and unappealing.

“I bet you’re feeling very sad that you managed to weasel your way out of this one,” Finnick stands beside him, barely decent in a woven gold net draped across his hips, tanned and strong, “I mean look at us all. Who wouldn’t want to be us, right now?”

Gale can’t help the laughter that spills from his lips. It’s a combination of having thought the exact same thing moments ago, combined with the hilarity of Finnick Odair saying something so dark. He’s aware that Finnick has always had that type of humour, but he was rarely able to show it.

“You can keep your erm…,” Gale looks down at the net that is barely keeping Finnick Odair decent, and even if it makes him angry that even as Finnick is being shipped off for the second time, he’s still being paraded as a piece of meat, he can’t help but laugh, “net?”

“It seems someone made _quite _the catch.” He purrs, spinning on the spot, dimpled smile. “Is this how I’d look in one of your snares?”

Gale guffaws, shaking his head. “I think there might be a bit more blood, little less glitter. But other than that, yeah, definitely.”

The absurdity of them both standing beside each other, as they had done many a time before, as if they aren’t waiting for death to start happening all around them. Finnick, Gale knows, is part of the plan. But that doesn’t mean he’s guaranteed safety. None of them ever have been before, and they certainly aren’t now.

“Shame, though,” Finnick takes a step backwards in the direction of the other victors waiting for the parade to commence, “I’d have loved to see you in the naked coal getup one last time.”

This time, Gale doesn’t try to keep his laughter quiet for the sake of everyone else around him, which seems to bring Finnick a lot of amusement as his dimpled face disappears behind the row of horses.

* * *

Whilst thirteen isn’t ideal in many respects, it’s certainly better than district twelve is currently. Gale still remembers the fumes and the rancid smell as the hovercraft had landed to pick up a mere 800 people, the last survivors from a district that has barely known anything good in life. It might have been ravaged by poverty, oppression and class divides, but it had still been home. It’d still been one of the few things Gale had left.

Katniss isn’t speaking to him, still. He’s getting better treatment than Haymitch, not that it’s saying much, but she can’t stand to look him in the eye for longer than two minutes when he speaks to her. Tries to break through the endless stream of morphling running through her veins, the cloudiness in her head, just to let her know that he didn’t want it to be this way either. That he’d tried to warn both of them against leaving each other’s sides, as though that will change the fact that Katniss and Gale are here, and Peeta is in the Capitol.

He roams the corridors, not looking for anywhere in particular as much as he’s looking for a reprieve from the endless stream of responsibilities he has. The feeling of being underground doesn’t bring much solstice when he’s constantly bombarded with memories of his father, the last morning he’d seen him heading out to work in the mines before he’d been buried alive. Gale doesn’t know if it was fast or slow, all he knows is that the elevator spewed out a few men covered in coal dust gasping for air every hour, until he stood there with his pregnant mother as they were told that there was nobody else left.

His eyes land on Finnick Odair, legs swinging from one of the railings as he sits, arms looped around the barrier as he knots a long thread of rope repeatedly. He’s humming quietly, seeming more subdued than Gale has ever seen him, looking startlingly plain, but no less handsome.

“Shouldn’t you be getting your makeup done for a propo?” Gale questions, sitting beside Finnick with a hint of awkwardness, legs swinging off the railings too.

Finnick’s head turns, his hair tousled, and his smile dimpled, “well we can’t all be camera ready, can we?”

Gale snorts at the comment, being reminded of the Capitol rebels and their insistence that Gale was one of the only people they’d consider ‘camera-ready’ without makeup. It was laughable, really, as Gale had one of the harshest, grumpiest faces of anybody.

“How are you finding thirteen?” Gale is genuinely curious, and he’s never been one to small talk. He does wonder if he’s the only one plagued by a combination of relief that he’s away from the Capitol, but odd anxiety over what comes next, or even apprehension over thirteen in general.

Finnick’s fingers stop threading the rope, his full attention now on Gale. It’s oddly unsettling, having those sea-green eyes sharply focused, even if he does always seem like he’s inwardly laughing at a joke nobody else knows about.

“Well, it’s safer than we’ve been the past few years,” he laughs, though it’s a cynical and cold laugh by his standards, “I can’t say that the food fills me with anything but dread. Personally, I’d strip my clothes off right now for a lamb stew from President Coin, but she’d probably just put me in shackles.”

Gale laughs so violently for a second, he’s thankful the railing stops his forward descent down into the pits of district thirteen.

“We’re close to the end, aren’t we?” He continues, eyes drifting off into the distance and glazing over. “It’s bound to get weird from here on in. I do miss home, though.”

The longing in his voice reminds Gale of the ache in his chest when he thinks of the meadow, the same meadow that just about shielded the remainder of twelve’s citizens from being burned alive. His hand reaches out to Finnick’s, resting above it. Finnick shoots him a small smile, an oddly sweet one that twists Gale’s gut because he’s not sure how Finnick of all people can really smile anymore.

“Me too.” Gale’s voice is low, his hand grasping Finnick’s firmly, as it’s the only form of comforting Gale’s really certain that he’s able to offer adequately. He’s never been one for words of comfort, and he thinks the last time he hugged someone was Katniss, before her games.

Finnick’s head drops onto Gale’s shoulder, his hair tickling Gale’s neck as he settles his face into the crook of Gale’s neck.

“I guess we’ll be free soon,” he murmurs, his breath fanning along Gale’s neck, “there’s a certain comfort in that.”

Gale doesn’t want to ask if free for Finnick means being dead or winning the war, because he’s certain that like himself, Finnick is more than willing and enthusiastic to kill Snow or die trying. He nods, an arm around the one man he’d have never considered a comforting presence.

_Yes, Finnick, _he thinks, _we will be free._

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to hopefully be part one of a two part story. Gale is definitely one of the most interesting characters in the books and I couldn't help but imagine how he'd be if he were a victor.  
Maybe there is some Finnick/Gale in there if you squint.....oops.


End file.
